A Question of Murder (6 page)

I glanced down at the two empty cocktail glasses in front of her, and wondered whether it was the alcohol that had made her ill. Harold made another attempt to escort her from the room, but she was adamant that he stay with me.

“I’m sure you’ll feel better after a good night’s sleep,” I said.

“I hope you’re right,” she said and walked away, her painfully thin body moving unsteadily.

“I love her writing,” I told Harold after he was seated again.

“Yes, she’s jolly good, isn’t she?” he said.

“She certainly is. So, Harold Boynton, what do you do back in England?”

“Retired. Physician,” he said, muffling a burp behind his napkin.

“Oh? One of my dearest friends back home—that’s in a town called Cabot Cove—it’s in Maine—is a physician.”

“Might I know him?”

“I doubt it.”

“What’s his name?”

“Seth Hazlitt.”

“Doesn’t ring a bell. What’s his specialty?”

“Medicine,” I said with a chuckle. “He’s a true country physician, an old-fashioned general practitioner. He calls himself a chicken soup doctor.”

Harold joined my laughter. “An endangered species,” he said, “and too bad.”

“Did you specialize when you were in practice?” I asked.

“Yes, quite so. I was a coroner and medical examiner. Your friend, Dr. Hazlitt, tries to save people’s lives. I chop them up when he fails.”

I’d never heard a coroner or medical examiner describe his specialty quite so crudely before. I’d had the privilege of meeting many top medical examiners, including Michael Baden and Henry Lee, in the course of research I’d done for my novels. They tended to be gentle when describing what they do, speaking of the deceased with a certain reverence, anatomical and surgical nomenclature aside.

“Like to go dancing, Jessica, dear?” he asked, leaning toward my ear. “I understand they have a lively pub here in the hotel. We could sneak away together.”

“No, thank you, Harold, I don’t think so. I brought a good book with me—Ms. Wick’s latest, as a matter of fact. And one by Mr. Chasseur, too.”

“Pity,” he said, tapping my arm. “I’d like to get to know you better, Jessica.” He placed a hand on the top of my thigh.

I lifted it away by the sleeve, placed it back on the arm of his chair, and stood. “I believe the play is about to start,” I said, “and I don’t want to miss any of it.”

Feeling like one of Larry’s actors, I made my exit, stage right.

As I went to the auditorium, I passed the young actor who played Paul in the play. It was almost curtain time, and although he was in makeup and wearing his stage clothing, I wondered why he wasn’t backstage, ready to perform. As he hurried past me, a young woman grabbed his arm to stop him. “Hey, Peter,” she said, “I didn’t know you’d be here.”

Paul glared at her, yanked his arm free, and said, “You’ve got me confused with somebody else. Sorry, I’m in a hurry.”

Paul disappeared into a knot of theatergoers, leaving the woman looking puzzled. She saw that I’d witnessed the exchange, laughed, and said, “He’s a dead ringer for someone I knew back in San Francisco.”

“It’s happened to me on a few occasions,” I said, walking into the theater with her, “and seems to happen more frequently as I’ve grown older. I don’t think it’s because my ability to recognize people has diminished. There just seem to be more faces that look familiar to me.”

“Well,” she said as she found a seat, “they say everyone has a twin somewhere in the world, and that guy could be my friend’s twin. Enjoy the show.”

 

 

 

 

There was an air of excitement and expectation among the hundred or so people entering the auditorium for the first act of the play. I’ve learned over the years how devoted serious lovers of murder mysteries can be. They read every book in the genre they can get their hands on, and have rock-solid opinions about the relative quality of authors, plots, character development, and other aspects of the field. They love arguing with other devotees, and spend countless hours in Internet chat rooms and at conventions dedicated to crime writing.

I took a seat toward the rear of the room and eavesdropped on conversations around me. The teams had already begun to gather in clusters and to conjure scenarios. The talk—at least what I could pick up—was about Paul and the man in the chair outside the dining room a half hour earlier. Obviously, this incident would have significance as the theatrical production went forward, although at this early stage its importance was entirely speculative, especially since no one knew who these men were or what roles they would assume in the play.

Lawrence Savoy stepped onto the small stage. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen, lovers all of a good mystery.”

The buzz in the room continued until Larry called for attention. Conversation wound down and he continued with his introduction: “Welcome to the magnificent Mohawk House and a weekend of merry mayhem, dastardly crimes, and murder most foul. And we won’t let this snowstorm dampen our spirits, will we?”

A chorus of affirmation welled up.

“As you know,” Larry continued, “we’ll begin each of our sessions with a few questions devised by our distinguished authors to test your knowledge of the murder mystery genre. At the end of the weekend, the person with the most correct answers will win a special prize. Everybody should have a card.” He held up a sample of the small index cards that had been distributed. “You’ll write your answers on the cards provided in your welcoming packets and they’ll be collected before the play begins. Be sure to write your name on them so you’ll be able to pick them up the next time we gather. No changing your answers allowed. If we see an erasure, you’re disqualified. No consulting the Internet. And turn off your cell phones now.”

He read off the first set of questions, and everyone around me began writing. Many, concerned that their answers might be copied, used their bodies, as well as other materials they’d brought into the room, to shield their cards from other eyes. A few minutes later, Melinda Savoy and some of the hotel staff circulated among the attendees and collected the cards.

“All right,” Larry said into his handheld microphone, “it’s time for the fun to begin. As many of you know, an altercation took place less than an hour ago. One of the participants is being treated by the kindly physician who stepped forward in the best tradition of medicine. The gentleman who’d fallen ill claims he’s being blackmailed. I’ve placed a call to the local police, but either they’re all out to dinner, or have other crimes to investigate. I’ll let you know the minute they arrive—and, I must warn you, everyone in this room will be considered a suspect. One of you may be a blackmailer. Blackmail is a terrible crime, but there are some that are even worse. And before the night is over, you may witness another heinous crime.”

He delivered that last line in an ominous tone, which elicited moans of foreboding from the audience.

“So sit back, relax, and remember: You never know whether or not the person seated next to you is a blackmailer—or a cold-blooded killer. Beware! And good luck to all.”

The curtain behind Larry slowly opened, revealing the drawing room set in which Monroe and Victoria Whittaker, their daughter, Cynthia, and her young suitor, Paul, were gathered.

“Be careful, Cynthia,” a woman in the audience called out.

Another audience member shushed her.

“I don’t trust him,” said a man from the audience.

 

“He looked pretty good to me,” a woman sitting in front of me murmured to her companions. “I don’t care if his sweater isn’t cashmere. Did you see those muscles? I like a man with a good build.”

“Not a bad face either,” her friend replied.

“Shhh, both of you,” said another woman. “Everything they say may be a clue. I don’t want to miss anything.” She scribbled furiously on her pad.

 

People throughout the room took copious notes, causing me to smile. From my past experience with productions mounted by Larry and Melinda Savoy, I knew how seriously those in attendance took their responsibility to solve the crime at the end of the weekend. Some would fill entire notebooks and spend half the night with fellow team members charting the scenes from the play on blackboards or on huge pads of presentation paper. Someone passing too close to one of these analytical sessions would cause all conversation to cease, and two or three team members would quickly step in front of the graphic representation to block it from view. Multiple pairs of eyes would follow the progress of the intruder, waiting until he or she was well out of earshot before resuming the arguments, piecing together the myriad clues dropped during the play and at offstage goings-on that permeated every aspect of the weekend stay at Mohawk House.

 

 

It struck me as a bit of overacting, but others in the audience responded differently.

The women in front of me gasped. “It looks so realistic,” one of them said.

“Nuts! I was hoping he wouldn’t be the one. I was going to interview him first. Now we’ll never see him again till the last day when he takes a bow.”

“Maybe they’ll let him join the reception in the bar anyway. We could ask him why he died.”

“They don’t do that. Only the living cast members are allowed to join the guests.”

 

The groans and general murmur from the audience were quieted when the doors to the auditorium were flung open and two men boldly stepped into the room. One wore a tan trench coat, and a fedora was perched on his head at a rakish angle. The second man wore a policeman’s blue uniform.

“Don’t nobody move!” the plainclothes cop shouted.

“Don’t nobody move!” the uniformed cop said.